


you belong to me

by kweerwolf



Series: you belong to me - martin whitly/malcolm bright [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Father/Son Incest, Love Confessions, M/M, Martin Whitly loves his son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 14:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21078332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kweerwolf/pseuds/kweerwolf
Summary: martin whitly realises he loves his son. it’s only decent to tell malcolm how he feels.





	you belong to me

**Author's Note:**

> big thanks to everyone who read the previous story, gave kudos, and left comments. you guys are amazing, and i hope you enjoy this next part of my prodigal son story.

_ I love him. _

The moon cast thin shadows across his cell, striping the room in black and white. It was rare that he got a good night’s sleep, he tended to sleep well into the morning, curled up on his uncomfortable cot. He especially hadn’t been able to sleep since Malcolm finally made his grand re-entrance into his father’s life, ignoring every attempt to catch up and act like family in favour of asking him for help on cases. But he was still seeing his son, he was still on cloud nine finally getting to talk to him again, even if it was briefly.

_ I  _ love  _ him. _

Martin wondered if Malcolm was also awake right now, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, counting sheep. He chuckled at the thought.  _ Malcolm counting sheep, _ like he was still eight-years-old. It was still hard to believe that he was going to be thirty-two in three months, exactly three months and twelve days. He stopped trying to send him birthday letters after he turned twelve and Jessica sent it back within the same day. However, he’d be able to call him all day if he wished, even if Malcolm never answered those calls.

He rested his folded arms underneath his head, closing his eyes and thinking about what he was going to do tomorrow. No phone calls with patients, likely no visits, just another day looking through his journals and reliving his past.

Martin got up from his cot, treading across his room and sitting down at his desk. He pulled out one of his pens, a ballpoint provided by his guard when he lost his previous, much more expensive one to a very absent-minded Ainsley. She probably hadn’t noticed she tucked it into her jacket’s pocket before she left him, that she got it from him and not a random co-worker. However, he didn’t mind her having it. At least it was getting used.

He pulled out one of his many journals, one used for both his ponderings about sociopathy and as a daily journal. Martin scanned over his previous entry, one gushing about how he finally got to see his daughter in the flesh for the first time since his arrest. The entry before that was bitter, ranting about how Jessica wanted to keep he and Malcolm apart, despite understanding her concerns.

That night’s entry had no idea what it wanted to be. He simply wrote “I love him,” not quite understanding who “him” referred to. It took ten scribbles of the same phrase for his subconscious rambling to finally make itself clear. 

Of course. Of course, of course,  _ of course _ . He never wanted to admit it to himself, he’d already done enough to isolate himself from his family. 

To think murder wasn’t Martin’s only sin.

But, he doesn’t view it that way. He can’t find a reason to be repulsed by this. Of course, civilised society would find it disgusting and taboo (thus making it fetish fodder for them), as they always did. His family would be mortified by the fact. Malcolm would stop visiting if the agreement with Jessica fell through, his only connection to the world outside finally severed.

He wanted what was best for his son, but that wasn’t what was best for Martin. He  _ needed  _ to see Malcolm. To go without their little talks would be akin to suffocation that wouldn’t even bring about the sweet release of death.

His pen scrawled across the page, putting his racing thoughts to paper. Martin set the pen down, staring at what he wrote like it was entirely new to him.

_ I know he’s my son, that he will never want what I do. I want too much of him. But that fact can’t change my mind, no matter how I try to deter myself. _

Martin left the journal open on his desk, returning to his cot. His thoughts were finally at bay, satisfied that he acknowledged them in some way. It hurt to know he could never tell anyone about these feelings, these torturous ideas that would return and taunt him until he told Malcolm.

He never could. He had to do everything to keep Malcolm around now.

Though, Jessica was beginning to catch on to Martin having visits with their son. It was only a matter of time before she forced them apart, drove a stake right in the middle of their “relationship.” He wouldn’t kid himself, despite his optimism he knew Malcolm didn’t care about him. His feelings were unrequited in every regard.

He might as well enjoy their time together while he still can. It’s likely that his most recent visit with Malcolm was his last, he shattered when the door closed.

The next morning, he made a call he was certain Malcolm wouldn’t answer. His supervisor sat in his chair, watching as Martin spilled his guts through the phone.

“You’re made for me, I’m made for you. We belong together, Malcolm, and I apologise if it scares you. I love you.” He paused, looking up at his supervisor and noted the vaguely disgusted look frozen onto his face.

He looked up at the ceiling, skeletal cracks bursting from the edges of each inset light. “ _ I love you. _ I don’t need you to love me too, but I need you to know. If you feel the same, you know where to find me. I’ll wait for you, my  _ dear  _ boy.”

The voicemail ended, and his supervisor stood up, taking the phone away. He said nothing, he just rolled the cart out the door and left Martin alone, thinking over what he just admitted.

He didn’t regret it. In fact, a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Like every one of their chats, he was floating.

Now, it was time to wait. Watch the hours tick by, hanging on for a response. He wrote in his journal, reviewed his files, had the TV brought in so he could watch the news and admire Ainsley’s expert reporting. Soon she’d know, then Jessica would know, and his whole world would come tumbling down around him once again.

But right now, he’s waiting for Malcolm to slam the door open and confront him. He desperately needed the rush, and only his son could provide it.

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone is interested, i have a prodigal son-themed playlist on yt and spotify, titled “you belong to me.” if you want a soundtrack to these stories, there you go. <3


End file.
